


i want there to be an after

by wandering_gypsy_feet



Series: Week of One Shots [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Punisher au, aka my dream man, it's sandor as the punisher, marvel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-07 02:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18401651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_gypsy_feet/pseuds/wandering_gypsy_feet
Summary: Sandor 'The Hound' Clegane terrorized the city a year ago, taking down the gang members he held responsible for his family's murder. The only person able to get to him was the journalist Sansa Stark, who knew what it was like to lose one's entire family. After disappearing for months, Sandor was back and adamant on taking down the Lannister family - no matter what it costs him.A Punisher AU, where Sandor is Frank and Sansa is Karen.Third in the week of oneshots series.





	i want there to be an after

**Author's Note:**

> GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS GUYS THIS ONE IS MY FAV
> 
> So I adore the netflix punisher series (RIP, fuck you disney) and I love these two couples. This will make more sense if you've seen the series, but can be read as a stand alone. 
> 
> please let me know what you think!

Sansa watched at Sandor forced himself into another round of pull-ups, hanging from the bars in the Elder Brother’s makeshift new home a slightly squalid abandoned bunker. She watched him, said nothing, and hugged her knees to her chest. It seemed simpler than trying to get his attention. To let him be. 

 

 

She didn’t know what she’d say besides, if she actually worked up the nerve and courage to open her mouth. It didn’t seem like there was anything to say anymore. They were all adrift, off in their own little worlds, each of them within feet from the other and yet utterly solitary.

 

 

Sandor had been doing pull ups and crunches and lunges and other things for what Sansa thought had to be hours now. Hours. The Elder Brother was on his computers, typing away furiously while the feed that showed his family’s home went on without incident. Sansa sat on Sandor’s bed, knees to chest, arms wrapped around tight, and tried to focus on anything else but what had happened. 

 

 

Sandor being alive had came as a shock enough, and even while she’d been furious with him, she had been too happy to do anything but hold him tight. He was safe, and that was everything. But it couldn’t stay that way for long. It never did. 

 

 

She didn’t understand half of it as well as she wanted to. Sandor kept her at a firm arm’s length, pulling her in only when he had to and then just as quickly shoving her back out. She knew why. Her safety, he thought. The less she knew the less she mattered to whoever it was coming for him. Except that men like that never cared about collateral damage. 

 

 

She’d helped him, of course, however she could. That was the debt she owed him, wasn’t it? He had saved her life, over and over again, and because of that she was bound to him, to his quest for vengeance. She watched as he moved into a plank, his chest glistening with sweat, and reflected. 

 

 

She knew Sandor Clegane, but she didn’t truly know him. She knew he was from out west, and had spent most of his adult life as a solider. She knew that he was special forces, a deadly killer, and that the whole world thought him a monster. 

 

 

She knew that he’d had a family, and they had all been killed. 

 

 

But the rest she didn’t know at all.

 

 

He stood and his gaze met hers. Grey eyes and so angry the first time she’d seen him, she truly thought he meant to kill her. Sometimes, when she caught him off guard, she saw the rage dimmed. She saw something in his gaze that might’ve been good, once, before. But not anymore. She hardly saw him without the fury. 

 

 

He watched her for a long moment before he turned away and reached for a ratty towel to wipe his face. He’d never look at her too long. He always turned away, like it was too much. Half the time she didn’t know if she repulsed him. He was always pulling away. 

 

 

Except she was here, wasn’t she? That had to speak volumes. If what the Elder Brother told her could be trusted, it seemed as though the whole world was going to come crashing down around them. In a way, it already had. Sansa had been walking home, ready to get off her feet and rest, when she’d opened the door to her apartment and there he’d stood, five dead men in her kitchen and living room. 

 

 

He’d crossed the several steps to grab her before she screamed. She’d dropped the few groceries she’d grabbed from the deli on the corner, eggs splattering to mix amidst brains and blood. Sandor’s hand had clamped over her mouth and he’d dragged her away. They’d ran, for so long Sansa stopped feeling her high heels cutting into her skin. And when she’d stumbled, Sandor had picked her up and carried her. 

 

 

They were coming, that was all he would tell her. Not who they were. Or where they were coming from. Why, when, how, nothing. He’d brought her here, told her she’d be safe, whatever safe meant, and then he’d pulled away once again. Gone, and she didn’t have a clue about what she was meant to do. 

 

 

“Anything?” Sandor’s growl cut through the thick silence and Sansa couldn’t get her throat unstuck to speak. It was unimportant however; his question was directed towards the Elder Brother. 

 

 

“Not yet…” Sansa wasn’t sure who the Elder Brother was either. David, he’d been called once. But beyond that, Sansa knew nothing. “But Sarah, the kids, they’re fine. They haven’t gone for them, so why’d they go after her?” 

 

 

“Her has a name,” Sansa found her voice again and it was cold, a chilly bite to it. “It’s Sansa.” 

 

 

“Sorry, Stark,” the Elder Brother glanced over his shoulder at her. She decided it was better not to fight with him and she left it, looking at Sandor. He was ignoring her, watching as the cameras switched from street to street. He was searching for something, but what?

 

 

“He doesn’t know about Sarah or the kids,” Sandor muttered, eyes still fixed to the screens. He didn’t even spare Sansa a glance. “The whole world thinks you’re dead, remember?” 

 

 

“Yeah, same as you, and look what happened,” the Elder Brother reminded him. Sandor’s shoulders stiffened. 

 

 

“He’d come after me even if I were a fucking corpse,” he replied after a moment. “He’s never going to stop coming after me.” 

 

 

“Who?” Sansa demanded, but was roundly ignored. Sandor never tore his gaze from the screen, nor the Elder Brother from his typing. Sansa wanted to scream, but there was no one there to hear her. Least, no one who cared. She drew her knees back up to her chest and watched the two men, trying to resist the urge to rage. Good girls didn’t rage; they sat quietly in the corner. 

 

 

It was the rumbling of her stomach that finally got their attention. She’d been planning on making herself supper when she got home. She’d had a light lunch at her desk, chasing down leads and trying to verify with sources. She was starving, but she hadn’t said a word out of anger. Now Sandor turned to her and frowned. 

 

 

“The fuck was that?” 

 

 

“Nothing,” she jutted her chin out childishly. He took a step closer; looked her up and down slowly. 

 

 

“You eat today?” his voice was rough, but the look he gave her was almost gentle. Somewhere, deep inside him, there was kindness. She only had to see it long enough to grab hold of it and drag it to the surface. She was trying - she’d been trying since she met him practically - but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

 

 

“I did,” her reply was flat, hostile even, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was going to actually smile. Then it was gone and he turned, going for the kitchen. Sansa’s stomach rumbled, louder this time, and for a brief moment she nearly followed him. Then her pride returned and she stayed where she was, looking straight forward. 

 

 

She didn’t relent even when her mouth started watering at the smells coming from the kitchen. She was angry with him. Furious might have been a better word, but she was too confused to be furious yet. She just wanted answers, some goddamn truth, but Sandor wouldn’t tell her anything. She sat and watched the Elder Brother type and mutter to himself, all his attention on the screens of his house. 

 

 

“Here,” Sandor thrust a bowl at her and Sansa looked down, stopping her jaw from dropping. Inside were pad thai noodles, veggies, bits of chicken, and spices. She looked up at him in bemusement, but he just handed her chop sticks and walked away with his own bowl. 

 

 

“Thank you?” Sansa remembered at the last moment and he grunted, back to her, standing and eating. She rose off the bed and grabbed the blanket, slinging it around her shoulders and using an elbow to keep it in place. She took a bite and nearly groaned. It was even better than the place two blocks from her apartment. 

 

 

“More on the stove,” he muttered quietly, once she had nearly finished her bowl. They were standing side by side now, both watching the screen, though Sansa had no idea what she needed to look for. 

 

 

“Where did you learn to cook?” she questioned and his grey eyes flickered to hers for no more than a second. No anger this time. It was like watching silent heat lightening strike. There and gone.

 

 

“Eat more,” he answered instead and Sansa nearly frowned, but she stopped herself. She didn’t know much about him, and learning about who taught him to cook wasn’t going to change anything. Instead she tried to pay him a compliment. 

 

 

“Well, it’s great. It’s even better than the little family ran spot by my…” she trailed off, looking up from her empty bowl to look at him in a mixture of horror and…. something she couldn’t identify. He avoided her gaze, but she didn’t need much more than that. 

 

 

“Before it gets cold,” he added quietly, but Sansa was beyond eating now. She stared at him, trying to sort out her feelings and failing. 

 

 

“Did you… know?” she finally croaked and this time his eyes locked with her for a few seconds longer; a thunderclap instead of lightening. 

 

 

“Know what?” he took a bite from his own bowl and Sansa struggled for words. 

 

 

“That I…. liked thai? Did you…. make this, for me?” 

 

 

“You were hungry,” he said it like she was nothing, but Sansa wasn’t having any of that. 

 

 

“Are you having me watched?” Sansa demanded and the Elder Brother hit a button without looking back at either of them. 

 

 

"There," he spoke and Sandor turned away from her, looking at the screen. Sansa squinted, trying to make out what they were both looking at, when Sandor set his bowl down and snatched a coat hanging from a rusty nail. All Sansa could make out was a nondescript black car, parked in one of the cities numerous parking garages, but clearly it meant something to Sandor. 

 

 

"Where are you going?" she demanded, as he grabbed two guns from a table and stuck one in the waistband of his jeans and the other in a holster on his ankle.

 

 

"Stay here," he responded, without looking at her. 

 

 

"If it's something dangerous, I want to help!" 

 

 

"Make sure she stays," that order was directed to the Elder Brother, who nodded. Sansa gaped at him, enraged. 

 

 

"I'm not some doll, you can't stick me on a shelf! I have a life!" 

 

 

"I know, I'm trying to keep it that way," he told her frankly, looking over the top of the muscle car he was about to climb into. Sansa opened and shut her mouth, unable to come up with a witty retort for once. Sandor held her gaze steadily for a moment, then got in the car and disappeared. 

 

 

Sansa snapped her mouth shut when it became apparent that nothing else she said or did would improve the situation, so she went back to the default that had been instilled in her. She cleaned. She grabbed her bowl and then Sandor's, going to the kitchen to wash them up. It was the cleanest room in the entire bunker, with plastic cutlery and dishes, but neatly organized and stocked with the cooking basics. 

 

 

She filled the sink with water, aware that the Elder Brother was at the stove, filling his own dish. She wasn't scared of him, per say, but she was on edge, aware of his every move. Sandor trusted him which was enough for her, but she wasn't about to try to make friends with the maniac in the bathrobe. He sat down at the counter, eating and watching her without saying a word. Sansa busied herself with as much cleaning as she could before finally running out of things to do and turned to him with a sigh. 

 

 

"Where do I put the leftovers?" 

 

 

"Tupperware's there," he pointed to one of the cupboards and Sansa opened it, finding a neat stack of them. She pulled one out and scrounged around for a matching lid then went to the stove where the leftover pad thai remained.

 

 

"Want any more?" she offered and he shook his head. She filled the container, scraping everything out of the pan before setting it in the sink to soak. She popped the lid on and set it in the fridge. 

 

 

"So you're the Sansa Stark," the Elder Brother said and her shoulders stiffened slightly. 

 

 

"What about me?" she asked defensively. Most people knew her last name. Knew her father, her brother. It wasn't uncommon for them to have opinions. 

 

 

"It's just nice to finally put a person to the video," he remarked and she snorted despite herself. 

 

 

"So you have been watching me," she confirmed, folding her arms. He shrugged, eating more pad thai. "Isn't that illegal?" 

 

 

"Out of everything, that's what you think I'm worried about?" he pointed out and she narrowed her eyes. He had a point, even if she didn't want to admit it. And as much as she hated having her privacy infringed on, she felt a little reassured that Sandor was watching her back, quite literally. 

 

 

"Just promise me there aren't cameras in my bathroom," she challenged and she saw a flare of amusement on his face. 

 

 

"You know, you weren't what I was expecting," he leaned forward on his elbows and Sansa reluctantly sat across from him.

 

 

"What were you expecting?" 

 

 

"Something else, with the little Sandor's told me about you," he seemed to almost be x-raying her with the intensity of his gaze. 

 

 

"What has he told you?" she tried to keep her voice calm, even as her heart gave a few painful thuds in her chest at the idea of him telling anyone about her. 

 

 

"Not much," he was watching her carefully, "just that he had to protect you. Something about you tending to throw yourself headfirst into whatever danger was closest at hand." 

 

 

"Like he's one to talk," she grumbled, trying to hide her smile. 

 

 

"Two peas in a pod, you are," he remarked quietly and Sansa took a deep breath to keep herself poised. "He seems very averse to anything happening to you." 

 

 

"Well, I can take care of myself," she grumbled, hugging herself, "and I could even help if he'd let me." 

 

 

"He claims not to be a team player," he watched as she began to pace the kitchen. She didn't like being in such a small space, let alone one that was underground, dingy, and full of incredibly sharp edges. 

 

 

“Yeah?” she turned and faced him, eyebrows raised. “He tell you that he was part of an elite military killing team, one of only a handful? I’m pretty sure he’s a team player, we just aren’t his team.” 

 

 

“In his defense, an ex special ops solider, buddy buddy with a hacker and a journalist?” he pointed out and Sansa scowled, stopping her pacing and narrowing her eyes. 

 

 

“So that’s what you. Hacker. The information source. You’re the one helping him go after this thing, the one who found me,” she listed off, trying to make sense of the situation. 

 

 

“You weren’t too hard to find,” he seemed amused by that but Sansa left him have it. She knew her strengths and weaknesses. Hiding in plain sight wasn’t her talent, it was her sister’s. 

 

 

“Don’t get too cocky, it’s not like I made it difficult.” 

 

 

“You? No. Your sister, and those two brothers?” he raised an eyebrow as he slurped up more noddles. Sansa kept very still, not wanting to give away the fact that her heart had started to race. 

 

 

“I don’t have a family,” she said flatly and he shrugged. 

 

 

“Maybe not. But you have siblings. Arya. Bran. Rickon. And then there’s your cousin Jon. You don’t have parents, sure. But you have family.” 

 

 

“You’re bluffing,” she decided to call him on it. Anyone that knew the story of her last name knew the names of her siblings. Including Jon. He’d only have to read any of the many obituaries out there of her dead families members to get that list. 

 

 

“Am I?” he grabbed his bowl and went back to the screens. Sansa followed apprehensively, unwilling to let him trick her. He sat down and began typing, occasionally breaking off to get a little bit more to eat. Sansa watched as several screens opened and closed before her eyes, before suddenly there were four, lined up in a row. 

 

 

The first was a library, clearly somewhere on a school’s campus. Huge stacks of books, large tables with clusters of kids sitting at them. There was no sound, but Sansa could about imagine. The lower mummers of group projects, the faint rustle of pages being turned, an occasional voice asking for assistance locating a book. And there, at a table with two other people, sat a boy with long hair and a wheelchair, smiling even as he thumbed through a book and jotted down notes. Sansa’s heart constricted painfully. Bran. 

 

 

The next was a city street, trained on the outside of a dingy pub. The flickering lights advertised that it was open and had beer, but there wasn’t much else to it. It was clearly raining there, since whenever anyone left they’d pull their hoods up. A clump of smokers were trying not to get wet under the eaves of the place, but they were laughing and talking. Sansa glimpsed among them a shorter man, with dark curly hair and a tattoo over the brow of his eye. Jon. 

 

 

The third screen was also a city, but this one in the light of day. It was a skatepark, a large one at that. Warm, wherever it was. The kids there had on shorts, and a few went shirtless. It was a mix of ages, of gender, of races. For a long moment, Sansa wasn’t sure what she was looking at. Then a boy flew past, kicking the skateboard out and managing to land on it in the nick of time. Curly red hair. Pale skin, freckled from the sun. She felt tears stab the backs of her eyes. Rickon. 

 

 

The final scene was a riot of colors and people. It was clearly a festival of some sort, with floats and costumes aplenty. Sansa searched it three times before turning to him with a smug smile. Her sister was nowhere to be found. He’d failed. Except when he gestured to one of the costumed figures, she realized that it was her. In a dress and headpiece, with makeup and an excessive hairstyle, but still her. Eyes locked on something they couldn’t see. She wondered who was going to die, by the hand of her sister. Arya.

 

 

“Alright,” she said quietly, tearing her eyes away from the screen, “I get your point.” 

 

 

“No, you don’t,” he stated, “my point wasn’t to scare you or threaten them. My point is that all your siblings have fled. Two of them to different countries. The other two under fake aliases, living a fake life. Yet you’re still here, with your same name.” 

 

 

“So?” she didn’t understand what he was getting at. 

 

 

“You are extraordinary,” he was gazing up at her with something Sansa almost thought was admiration, “and your instincts to survive are second to none. How’d you pull it off, getting a job as a journalist when your life story is one big scoop?” 

 

 

“Because this way no one else can write about it,” she said, before she could stop herself. She physically bit her tongue, annoyed that he’d gotten under her skin enough to provoke the answer.

 

 

“Ah, defending the legacy,” he nodded and she glared. He didn’t get it. He didn’t know anything at all. 

 

 

“My father was a traitor,” she said tartly, “and it ended up costing him, my mother, and my brother their lives. That’s all there is.” 

 

 

“That’s all that we were told,” he corrected, “that Ned Stark betrayed the government, that he was working with terrorists and traitors. That his own people turned on him in that mansion and shot him and his wife. His eldest son died trying to save them, but the other children were away.” 

 

 

“Away,” Sansa dug her fingernails into her skin so hard she was almost sure to draw blood. “My father sent us off so that we would be protected. Robb wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t go. That’s why they killed him too.” 

 

 

“The men who killed your father,” his tone had almost taken on a gentle note, more fatherly than anything, “they weren’t terrorists, were they?” 

 

 

“Jory was the head of my father’s security team,” Sansa couldn’t stop the words that were spilling out now, “and he never wouldn’t let in anyone any he didn’t know. It had to have been someone he knew. And my father wasn’t a traitor and he wasn’t a terrorist and he never would’ve—“ she stopped, gasping. It had been years since she allowed herself to say those words aloud. Elder Brother reached over and patted her hand. 

 

 

“No, he wasn’t. We know that. Sandor knows that.The men who killed your father, they’re the ones who’re coming after you,” he explained, “that’s why Sandor took you and why I’ve been keeping an eye out for any of the Starks we know are still living.” 

 

 

“How’d you find Arya?” Sansa let herself ask. He smiled and finished off the pad thai. 

 

 

“She was tricky, I won’t lie to you. She’s got plenty of warrants out for her arrest though.” 

 

 

“That’s Arya,” Sansa sighed. 

 

 

“But she’s easy to track once I got a handle on the twenty odd aliases she uses.” 

 

 

“So why are they coming after me?” Sansa asked, sitting down in a chair across from him. Her chest felt like the impossible tight bands around it had snapped, making talking and breathing easier. Someone believed her. Someone cared. 

 

 

“Because they know that you know,” he said evasively and Sansa folded her arms. “You kids are a living link to your father. You all knew about his business, that it was legit. Your brother Robb knew the most, I assume that’s why they killed him as well. But sooner or later the rest of you Starks were bound to grow up and speak out. You taking a job as a journalist? I’m sure that scared them worse than anything. You’re first on their little hit list.” 

 

 

“Who is this they you keep talking about?” Sansa demanded and he gave a rueful smile. 

 

 

“The people that killed your family. The people your father was trying to help. The government.” 

 

 

“And why would the government kill him?” she fought to keep her voice steady. She’d had her suspicions, all the years she’d had time to mull it over. The government covering something up had always made the most amount of sense, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to believe it. 

 

 

“The Lannister family,” he stated and her hands began to shake of their own accord. “Your father had found out that they’d been taking brides. Funding counterintelligence groups. Supporting human trafficking. Embezzling  Anywhere, anyway, anyhow, they were going to make money. And they did. Your father was going to call them on that. But they’re old money, tied to every office in the capital. We think the kill squad that took out your family belonged to them.” 

 

 

“Okay,” Sansa’s lips were numb and her mind reeling from all the new information there was to process. She nodded several times without being aware that she was doing so, before the most important question popped into her mind. “And Sandor?”

 

 

“What about him?” Elder Brother frowned slightly. 

 

 

“Why does he care? Why is he protecting me?” she demanded and he sighed, tapping a few buttons so that a newspaper article pulled up. Sansa scooted closer so that she could read it but didn’t need to - it was the same article she’d found back when they met. The one about a family being killed in their beds, viciously. Mother, father, daughter. One survivor. A boy who was never seen again. 

 

 

“Because the same people that killed your family, killed his,” he explained quietly and Sansa sat back down with a thud. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She sat on Sandor’s bed, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like him. Elder Brother was dozing in his chair, wrapped in his bathrobe. He was watching the feed of his family again, but he’d kindly put the ones of her siblings on another screen and promised that they’d track them so they could all keep on an eye on them. 

 

She was going over the facts in her head like she did with any story that had too many leads and not enough facts. She laid them out side by side to compare them, trying to set them out and put the pieces back where they belonged. 

 

She had first met Sandor when he'd been in the hospital, recovering. She'd been trying to get to him, to pull a story out of him before anyone else could, partly to see if she could. A vigilante who was tearing the city apart. She'd lied, bribed, and charmed her way into his bedside, but once she was there, any ideas of doing a story had fled. He had opened up to her, talked to her, told her the honest truth. His brother had killed their parents and sister, and now he was just trying to get revenge on him and the gang he ran. His story had changed the course of her life. 

 

She wasn't scared when he broke out of prison. She wasn't scared when his killing spree began to reach double digits. She wasn't scared, even as it seemed as though every person who'd spoken to him wound up dead. Because things had been different between them. They were a pair of sorts, alone and scarred, seeking revenge. 

 

She'd told him about her family, her past. He hadn't flinched or balked, just like she hadn't when he told her his story in return. They understood each other. Sansa didn't think he was a monster. He was just grieving, and he was willing to do what she could not. Of course, he went off grid now and then. Disappeared entirely, until she'd poke her nose somewhere she shouldn't. Get herself into danger. 

 

There'd been the time she'd investigated the Bolton crime family and had woken up to a knife above her throat. Sandor had gotten her out of that one. Or when she'd been poking into the financials of Baelish Inc and had all sorts of threatening letters mailed to her. Sandor had stopped those. He always protected her. 

 

Except he'd been off the grid for months before now and Sansa hadn't heard from him. She'd assumed he was dead, or worse kidnapped and being tortured. There was a small, secret part of her that whispered that perhaps he just didn't care for her anymore, but she refused to believe that. Months had passed, but now here she was in what seemed to his bunker with his partner in crime with dead men in her apartment and her life imploded. 

 

So the people who killed her father were working for the government. Her father wasn't a traitor. He, her mother, and Robb had been killed to cover something up. What was the something? She pondered the question, refusing to let her ever familiar grief rear it's ugly head and consume her. Corruption in the Lannister family. But why would they go after Sandor's family as well? Her family had been wealthy, connected, powerful. He'd came from a solidly middle class. How did they connect?

 

She was tired. She was thirsty. She wanted a shower, a change of clothes, and sunshine. She wanted answers and she wanted to know if Sandor was safe. She wrapped the blanket around herself and laid down on the limp pillow. She didn't intend to drift off into sleep, but the next thing she knew, there was some much clatter in the bunker that she shot straight up, thinking the horsemen of the apocalypse themselves were charging through. 

 

"Good morning sunshine," said Elder Brother cheerfully, as he helped Sandor hang up what seemed to the entire arsenal of a small country. Sansa blinked several times, trying to get her bearings again. 

 

"What happened?" she asked rather stupidly and Sandor glanced back over his shoulder at her. 

 

"You napped." 

 

"To you, I mean," she pushed herself up straighter and fixed the blanket. 

 

"I'm fine," Sandor said shortly, then reached down and tossed her a duffel bag. She caught it, bewildered, and opened it. Inside were a few pairs of pants and shirts, all of which seemed to be her size, if not quite her style. 

 

"These aren't from my apartment," she stated and he glanced back at her. 

 

"Place is a crime scene. Your neighbors finally called it in. The police are looking for you." 

 

"As a suspect or out of concern?" Sansa clarified and Sandor went back to his guns. 

 

"Both. But we left a voicemail on your boss's phone, saying you were going to take a few weeks and go camping in the remote wilderness. No service." 

 

"I didn't leave that message," Sansa said, even as she knew what they'd done. 

 

"You're fine, don't worry about it," Elder Brother gestured down the halls, "bathroom's are that way and I promise there's no mold."

 

"A very specific promise," Sansa grumbled, but she got up and went. She wanted a hot shower more than she cared to admit. The bathroom facilities were as free of mold as he'd promised but that seemed to be the end of the luxury. She didn't even have a curtain, it was just a small half wall that separated her naked self from the doorway. She scrubbed herself as clean as she could then dried off and got dressed as quickly as possible. When she went back to the kitchen, Sandor was pulling out files, flipping through them. 

 

“You should rest,” he said without looking at her. Sansa folded her arms, keenly aware that she was wearing knockoff novelty slippers and a fuzzy cardigan. She couldn’t paint the most intimidating of pictures, but she sure tried. 

 

“I don’t need to rest, I just woke up,” she insisted, going to his side and trying to look at what was in the files, “and besides, I can help. I research and dig for a living.” 

 

“The less you know, the better,” Sandor said brusquely, moving the files so that they were out of her reach. Sansa slapped her open palm down on the table, irate. 

 

“If the same people who killed your family destroyed mine, I deserve to know!” 

 

“You….” Sandor slowly grew furious and Sansa wanted to take a step back, but she held her ground. Then he rounded on Elder Brother. “You told her?” 

 

“Only the gist of it,” he said defensively and Sansa reached out on impulse and caught Sandor’s hand. His large palm was rough and warm in hers, filled with bumpy callouses and deep cracks. He looked down at their hands then at her, the anger in his eyes abating only slightly. 

 

“I need to know,” she pleaded gently, “I need to help. Please, Sandor, let me help.” 

 

“Little bird,” he whispered and she very nearly smiled. He so rarely called her that anymore. “It’s dangerous. The men out there, they’ll kill you. Painfully. Brutally. And I cannot, will not,” his voice cracked, “let anything happen to you.” 

 

“You never do,” she took a step closer and realized that Elder Brother had slunk away, off to some other part of the bunker. She was glad for the privacy. 

 

“You don’t know what they’ll do to you,” he stated and Sansa gave a short, humorless laugh. 

 

“They’ll murder my father and mother in their bedroom,” Sansa’s resolve broke and tears began to roll down her face, “and my brother in our home. They will take a charmed, happy life of a young girl and end it, in not so many ways as her death. It tore us apart.” 

 

“If you die, I won’t forgive myself,” he muttered and Sansa let go of their hands. 

 

“Why won’t you let me help?” she demanded, anguished. “Every other time, you’ve let me. You asked me for help, you let me in. And now? Now that you’re trying to stop the people that killed our families and you’re going to lock me in some underground hole to wait it out?” 

 

“Because this is too personal!” he bellowed and Sansa did take a step back. “This is too, too much. It’s…. The things I’ve learned, you wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t want, it’s….” he reached out and grabbed her shoulders, giving them a slight shake. 

 

“Nothing that you can tell me is going to scare me away,” she whispered, “not when we’ve been though so much. I promise you that nothing you can tell me is going to make me walk away. Especially because I know you won’t let me,” she gave him a watery smile, but Sandor’s face didn’t move. He stared at her resolutely for a long minute, until he grabbed a file and held it out to her. She took it, reading it with a frown. 

 

She didn’t understand half of it, like reading a book with every third page missing. She wanted to grab the other files, spread them out and put it all together. But Sandor had handed her this one. It must have been important. So she scoured it, until bits and pieces of it began to stand out. Names. Places. 

 

Lannister. Iran. Weapons. Criminal gangs. Murder, racketeering, extortion, slavery, and money. So much money it made her head spin. And then another name. Sandor’s name, his last name specifically. Clegane. 

 

She looked up at him quizzically. He saw her confusion and sat down, breathing heavily. 

 

“My brother killed my family. I thought it was drugs, money, gang shit. But he was working for the Lannister’s. And they killed your family. Do you get it?” he lifted a guilt stricken face to her’s. “I’m the reason why your family is dead.”  

 

It took Sansa nearly an hour to sort through things. She read through the files once, then twice. She held redacted documents to the light and squinted, trying to see if there was anything at all she could make out. It was a mess, a tangle of dead ends and misdirection. Even with all her experience, it was still a jumble. But at the end of it, she finally closed the files, sorted them out neatly, and reached for Sandor. 

 

"You are not your brother," she said firmly, "and you are not responsible for anything he's done just like I wouldn't be responsible for what Arya's done. That's only fair. He's hurt you, just like he's hurt me. There's still only one way to do this Sandor, and that's together. So please, let me in." 

 

And thus began the month Sansa spent hunkered down with Sandor and Elder Brother. She got her own little cot and run of the kitchen. She refrained from taking on Elder Brother's favored style of dress, the bathrobe, but it was a near thing. Every day they dedicated themselves to finding more information on the Lannister's, how deep the corruption went, and just how vast it was. 

 

Some nights she fell asleep at the kitchen table, head on her hands and surrounded by more and more research. Those times, she more often than not woke up in her own cot. She suspected that Sandor always brought her back, but she never brought it up. Things between them were tense, filled with purpose. Revenge was paramount. It left no room for anything else. 

 

 Besides, even if Sansa had felt anything, it would have to triumph over the layers of exhaustion, grief, and anger that currently pressed down on her heart. That was what drove her, nothing else. She was in survival mode, just moving from one thing to the next. She knew that Sandor felt the same and they were ships in the night, passing by without saying a word. 

 

Elder Brother reminded Sansa of an uncle or older brother in a sense. He made sure she was eating, teased her gently when he sensed that her mood was turning too dark, and broke the tension between her and Sandor when it grew unbearable. He was behind all the information and hacking, but Sansa chose to look back any illegality of their activities with the belief that they were going to bring justice. 

 

"And you just punched him in the face?" Elder Brother gaped at her over the pizza they were sharing. Sansa nodded, careful not to drip grease all over the tablet she was watching. On it was Bran in the library again, lounging and reading his books. It was soothing to see him doing things a normal student would do. 

 

"I didn't mean to, really, it's just that I slipped in the mud and my fist met his face," Sansa said demurely and he snorted. 

 

"I'm sure it did." 

 

"I'm not the fighter," she insisted, "that was always Arya. I'm a peaceful sort."

 

"You threatened to shove chopsticks up my ass if I took some of your sushi last week," he reminded her incredulously and she shrugged. 

 

"I like sushi okay?"

 

"Clearly," he shook his head and then the sound of the car filled the bunker. They both looked over as Sandor got out, slamming the door. He leapt the handful of steps that led up to the kitchen, nearly crashing into the edge of the counter before he caught himself. He gripped the edge, staring at them with a frantic expression. Sansa was half out of her chair before she even realized she was moving. 

 

“I know where he lives,” he stated then pushed away and went to the computers. 

 

“Who?” Sansa demanded, getting up and bringing her pizza with her. It really was too good to waste. 

 

“Lorch,” Sandor began banging on keys, trying to wake the computers up. 

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Elder Brother leapt in front of him, pushing his hand away. “What did I say about touching this stuff?” 

 

“Pull it up,” Sandor ordered, “pull up the map. I have an address. We’ve got to move fast, he could be gone again in a day, we have to act now.” 

 

“Lorch,” Sansa tried to remember where that name fit into the puzzle, “Amory Lorch?”

 

“He’s the one,” Elder Brother booted up the computer. “Wasn’t he a mercenary?” 

 

“Good one too,” Sandor was pacing. “He worked for my brother, briefly. He might still, who knows? But he’s some higher up in the Lannister business now. And he’s back. If anyone can tell me where Gregor is, it’ll be him.” 

 

“And what are we going to do, kidnap him?” Sansa demanded as Elder Brother pulled up a satellite view of a massive house. 

 

“No,” Sandor jabbed a finger at the screen, “we’re going to attack him in his own house.” 

 

“Oh jesus fuck,” Sansa muttered, rubbing her temples. 

 

In the end, she couldn’t talk Sandor out of it. He was already planning the attack, strategizing, choosing weapons and escape routes. Nothing Sansa said or did had any impact on him so eventually she gave up. She knew this was who he was, an ex solider who wasn’t going to take rational conversation over torture. She let it go. 

 

“And you’ll pick me up, here,” Sandor pointed to a spot on the map they’d spread over the kitchen table. Sansa was drowsily sitting and listening to it. It had to be the early hours of the morning and there were still things to be done. Sandor wanted to strike that night, so that Lorch had no time to anticipate anything. 

 

“I can make that work,” muttered Elder Brother thoughtfully. 

 

“I want to be in the van,” Sansa stated and Sandor ignored her completely. Elder Brother did not. He turned to her with alarm. 

 

“No, absolutely not, it’ll be too dangerous.” 

 

“Now who do you sound like?” she grumbled and Sandor’s mouth twitched. 

 

“He’s right. You’ll stay here.” 

 

“Oh, and what, watch the news to see if you end up dead?” she pointed out tartly and the men exchanged looks. 

 

“Yes,” Sandor deadpanned and Sansa was silent. They clearly took her absence of a fight as acquiescing to their plan, but she was doing plotting of her own. Namely, how she was going to be in that van tomorrow. 

 

It turned out to be simpler than she imagined. Sandor had innumerous black duffel bags stacked in the back on the van filled with more weapons and medical supplies than any one man could ever need. Sansa just told them that she was going to be sulking and neither of them really questioned it. She didn’t know if she was meant to take that as compliment or insult, but either way she wound up in the back of the van, hidden by the bags, and smacking her head against one every time they hit a bump on the way to Lorch's residence. 

 

It took a lot in her not to reveal herself as Sandor prepared to leave; she kept getting hit with the notion that he wasn’t going to come out alive and that her last words to him would have been a pseudo hissy fit. But she couldn’t jeopardize the mission or his state of mind while on the mission, so she kept quiet and waited until he was gone and Elder Brother had cracked open a bag of chips to make her grand entrance. 

 

She shifted the bags and then stood up, rolling out the crinks in her neck and flinching when she touched the back of her head. There was going to be a bump there, she was sure of it. Then she stepped over the bags and popped her head into the front seat, critically looking at the house in front of them. 

 

“Does he really think he needs the wall? It’s like three feet tall, it wouldn’t keep out even the laziest squirrels.” 

 

The yelp he gave was satisfaction enough to make up for the whole head bruise ordeal. The fact that he also didn’t shoot her as she slid into the seat next to him was also reassuring, even if he shot her a filthy look as she did so. She didn’t reach for his chips, figuring that just added insult to injury. 

 

“You’re not allowed to be here.” 

 

"Allowed?" she raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I thought you two just vetoed me going on this because you're raging misogynists."  

 

"Very funny," he glared at her. She knew he had two daughters that he adored and a wife he clearly missed, but over all the nights of shared dinners and research, he'd never explained what exactly his part in this mess was. She decided now was a good time to ask. 

 

"I'm not here to make trouble. I'm just going to sit and watch," she folded her hands neatly in her lap as if to prove her good intentions. He watched her suspiciously but didn't make a move to grab the com that was the other end of the piece in Sandor's ear currently. 

 

"How the hell did you get here?" he demanded finally and she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the mess of bags in the back. 

 

"You guys are like if a NRA convention had a meet up with some hoarders." 

 

"That's your boyfriend, not me," grumbled Elder Brother and Sansa worked very hard not to shoot out of her seat and begin pacing. The idea of any relationship with Sandor at all made it feel like bolts of lightening were coursing through her veins. It was almost painful, trying to drown out the hope with every inch of her body. 

 

"I just needed to be here. In case anything happened," she said quietly and he was silent in response, for so long that she was slightly concerned that he was falling asleep. 

 

"Your head when he comes back, not mine," he offered her the chips as a gesture of goodwill and Sansa took a few with a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't going to make her walk home and sulk. 

 

“So,” she said finally, after there had been silence for so long it almost seemed like their invisible third companion, “you’re a pretty smart guy.” 

 

“I try,” he grunted, without once taking his eyes off the darkness in front of them. Somewhere out there, she knew that Sandor was creeping towards the house. They both kept one eye on the heatseeking radar in front of them, but everything seemed clear. 

 

“And you seem like a pretty nice guy,” she continued and his gaze flickered to her, for just a fraction of a second. 

 

“I try,” he repeated, but much more cautious this time. 

 

“So tell me, how does a smart, nice guy like you end up in a van with a orphan and a ex super solider, eating stale Lays?” she popped another one in her mouth, aware that they were in uncharted territory. And that tended to be a dangerous sort of place for them.

 

“He gets dirt on the wrong sort of people,” he mumbled and she side eyed him. 

 

“What do you have that I don’t already know?” 

 

“There’s the journalist, poking her nose where she doesn’t belong,” he tried to deflect, “I can see why you get yourself into so much trouble.” 

 

“Trouble? Nah,” she shrugged, “that’s not until Sandor comes back and locks me in my room for stowing away on this. The worst you can do to me is steal my sushi.” 

 

“You don’t think that I could shoot you in the head and dump your body off in the ditch somewhere?” he asked, just a bit too casual and Sansa let that image sink into his mind before shaking her head. 

 

“No. You’re not a killer. I’ve met plenty of those and you’re nothing like them,” she explained and he was quiet, until he admitted, 

 

“I handled intel for a base in this shitty little place called the Saltpans. Never really knew why I was assigned there, but nothing ever happened. I was so jealous of the other guys, doing real stuff. Telling me it was classified, bragging about it over drinks. All I ever did was watch empty streets and fields and buildings.

 

“My wife thought I was insane, that I wanted something to happen. She’s an angel. Told me to be content that all I saw was ordinary people going about their day. So I went to work, watched a screen, and told my higher ups that there was nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing….

 

“Until there was something. A group of people, they came in. It was horrible, like nothing I’d ever seen,” he briefly closed his eyes like that was going to stop it. “And I told my superiors, right away. They took one look at the footage and told me to erase it. All of it. Not a trace. Make it look like it never happened.” 

 

“Why?” Sansa asked. She’d never heard of the Saltpans before in her life.

 

“That’s what I thought,” his knee was bouncing up and down, like a nervous tick. “But I’d spent 7 months watching those peoples; even if I didn’t know their names, I knew their lives. And now they were dead and their homes burned and so I made a copy of it. Of everything. Then I deleted it. An hour later they announced that an airstrike had razed the whole town and that there had been weapons and drugs and worse hidden there.” 

 

“But it wasn’t,” Sansa guessed with a sinking sense of horror and dread in her stomach that seemed to be becoming all too common. 

 

“No,” he shook his head and swallowed hard, like he was trying to get past the lump in his throat. “No, because when I went and looked back at that footage I realized the men weren’t just thugs or mercenaries. They were our thugs and mercenaries. Government ordered and issued. So I looked. Pressed. Guess what I found.” 

 

“Lannister’s,” Sansa briefly shut her eyes. It was all coming together. 

 

“Slave trade. Sex trafficking. Aliases, a man named Rouge, the whole nine yards. The more I looked, the more I found. And then I realized that what I had was more dangerous than I even knew. And I was one of the few who knew about it. If it got out, if it leaked….” 

 

“They would know it was you,” Sansa summed up then whistled. “Damn. That’s…. an impossible spot.” 

 

“Not a great one,” he agreed bitterly. “I couldn’t do that to my wife, my girls. They’d killed an entire village, what would stop them at two preteens and a part time nurse? So I faked my death. Easier that way. Let them think it was work stress, I couldn’t handle the pressure, whatever. I wrote them a note and….” he choked back a sob and Sansa reached out, resting a hand on his arm. He composed himself after a moment. “So then I found Sandor. And he had you. And I just needed some more information. If we can get it all together, prove it, maybe we can bring it all down.” 

 

“And you can go home,” Sansa said hollowly. He had a family to go back to. People who’d be happy to see him. Missed him. Mourned him. Her own family was dead or lost. The emptiness in her chest grew. swallowing blood and bone and leaving decay in it’s wake. 

 

“I’m to the back door,” Sandor’s voice crackled over the radio and Sansa jerked herself out of her mulling on family. She fought the urge to reach for the intangible part of him and instead let Elder Brother pick up the receiver and respond, 

 

“Copy. Intel says his bedroom is on the second floor, you’ll have 15 seconds when I can shut down the security to get in the doors.”

 

“Blow it,” was Sandor’s answer. Elder Brother pressed a red button and Sansa held her breath. She wasn’t quite sure how that would help, but it felt right. “I’m in,” he announced a few seconds later and she exhaled. 

 

“Stairs are to your left,” Elder Brother muttered and Sansa sat on her hands so that her nails wouldn’t do any damage like they had the night she and Sandor had finally figured out their tangled lives. She was sure she was going to have scars from that night and not just the ones on her soul. 

 

For a terse couple of minutes, Elder Brother guided Sandor through the manse, relying on the blueprints Sansa had managed to access and Sandor’s night vision googles he’d taken from some creepy weapon supplier. When she’d expressed disappointment in his patronage, he’d explained he’d stole them and knocked the guy out, due to his creepiness. 

 

“What the fu—“ Sansa heard someone yell, right at the time that Sandor was meant to be entering the bedroom, and then yelling and grunting took over. Sansa waited, on the edge of her seat quite literally, for the gunfire and any indication that Sandor was hurt. When it went quite, she realized she’d been holding her breath again, this time for much longer. She sucked in a greedy breath and nearly missed what Sandor said next. 

 

"Alright, listen here asswad. You're going to answer my questions, one by one. You tell me the truth, great. You lie, or stay quiet, then we're going to start missing some bits. Let's start with the ear; those are easiest to reattach. Where's my brother?" 

 

Lorch turned out to be more of an unexpected windfall than any of them expected. He knew more than Sansa had even dared hoped; she knew that Elder Brother was recording everything that Sandor was hearing but her journalist instincts kicked in and she began taking notes, jotting things down in on a pad of paper she'd taken from the glove compartment. 

 

He knew where Gregor and his men were, or at least where they could be. He told them how the Lannister's had hired them as a way to advance some of their more unsavory interests, paid them in guns and drugs, gave them more power and training than they knew what to do with. All of it made her head spin. She knew that torture would never hold up in a court of law, but she was fairly certain that wasn't Sandor's plan anyways. 

 

She couldn't stop herself from hearing the noises Locke made when he gave Sandor an answer that he didn't deem satisfactory enough. It made her queasy, the things that came out of the man's mouth, but she steeled herself by remembering all the people he'd tortured and killed himself. Men like that didn't deserve to live. 

 

They were reaching the end of the conversation, and the usefulness of Lorch. Sansa knew what was going to happen before it did, but the sound of Sandor dragging his knife across Lorch's throat and him choking on his own blood wasn't easier to stomach from a distance. She was working to hold down her meager supper when Elder Brother hit a few keys. 

 

"Alright, you're clear to head out. We'll meet you at the rendezvous site." 

 

That site was on the complete other end of the estate, given that Sandor hadn't wanted to leave the same way he'd came. It made sense, was absolutely logical, and had the correct depth of subterfuge. It was also miles away and difficult to get to, so Sansa was left to wait and worry in relative silence. She was just debating asking Elder Brother for some of the never ending snacks he seemed to be pulling out of nowhere when the door was yanked open and there stood Sandor, bloodied and grey. Upon seeing her sitting rather sheepishly in the front seat, he grew irate. 

 

"So about that me staying at home thing," she started and he growled. She scrambled into the back on the van. He climbed in and buckled up, tersely silent. There wasn't a word spoken the entire ride back to the bunker, until they pulled in and the door shut behind them. 

 

"I honestly didn't know," Elder Brother said finally and Sansa scowled. 

 

"Traitor." 

 

"And why didn't you take her back?" Sandor demanded. 

 

"And leave you on your own?" Sansa shot back. Sandor made a noise and got out of the van. Sansa went out the back, fully intending to keep arguing, but Sandor just brushed past her and began to pull bags out. She stood off to the side, feeling a bit like a ship without wind in its sails. 

 

"Good luck," Elder Brother muttered as he passed her and Sansa folded her arms, content to wait out the storm. Sandor lugged the weapons and supplies out, taking each one and breaking it down for cleaning. He did it all in silence and Sansa refused to crack. Eventually, it was Sandor who spoke. 

 

"What the hell?" his voice was low. 

 

"You knew," Sansa spoke quietly, "that I was not okay with being left at home like some child." 

 

"You weren't being left, you were being protected," he replied flatly and Sansa pursed her lips. 

 

"Tomato, potato," the saying made her sad; it was Arya who frequently messed that saying up. "I wasn't going to sit at home like a dutiful.... Wife," she finished lamely, for lack of a better analogy. 

 

"What if you'd gotten hurt?" he grunted, still more focused on his guns than her. “Or had to shoot someone, huh? You think you can pull that trigger?” 

 

“Yes,” she said quietly, thinking of how she’d asked the same thing of Elder Brother. But she’d thought about her answer and she knew it well. The Sansa of old, who loved stories and songs, would not have been able to. But she wasn’t that little girl anymore and she knew about the darkness in the world. 

 

“It’s not so easy.” he looked up at her, grey eyes critical. 

 

“I don’t imagine it will be.” she folded her hands together and set them primly on her knee. “But I’m not a child Sandor and I’m not weak. I won’t be sitting here in a bunker if something goes wrong. If you’re hurt and I’m not there….” she couldn’t bear to imagine the idea of not getting to say goodbye, to finally tell him everything. 

 

“I don’t want you there because I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said suddenly, gesturing to his bloody clothes. Sansa gazed at him steadily, even if this was new information. “I don’t want you seeing me at my worst, little bird!” 

 

“This isn’t your worst,” she told him quietly, “this is not your best, you need a shower, but it’s not your worst.” 

 

“And what is my worst, huh?” he rounded on her, furious. “What is it then Stark? Huh? Go on, tell me!” 

 

“This,” she said gently, “when you’re yelling at someone for caring about you, wanting to watch out for you, help you. I’m just trying to be here for you. Because you’ve been there for me, and I need you here for me now. So that’s when you’re at your worst, when you’re pushing me away. I’ve seen you at every stage, remember? Hospital, post hospital, vigilante, the Hound, now. I’ve seen it all and I am still here.” 

 

She let her words hang in the air. It felt charged, like both of them were buzzing and either going to come apart or snap together, one of the two. Sansa held herself very, very still out of fear of doing something wrong and snapping whatever it was that kept them like this. After a tense moment, Sandor’s shoulders dropped. 

 

“I care about you,” he allowed himself to admit, so quietly she almost missed it. 

 

She didn’t have any other words for that. She didn’t need any. It was enough for them, for this moment. So she got up and crossed the couple feet that separated them, pulling Sandor into a tight hug. For a moment he was nothing but stiff in her arms; then he relaxed and let himself be drawn in. Just before he broke it, she felt his face pressed into the top of her head. Then he pulled away and was gone. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It. Hurts.” Sandor’s teeth were gritted. 

 

“If you would stop squirming so much,” Sansa said pleasantly, trying to forget her exact circumstances and instead imagining herself somewhere on a beach, warm and relaxed. It was not made easy with Sandor’s constant grunts of pain. 

 

She was in the bathroom of the bunker, trying to stitch up the gaping wound in Sandor’s side. Elder Brother was bobbing around her, trying to best provide her with light but also staying out of her way. Sandor was standing there stoically, but even he was not immune to bullet wounds and antiseptic. 

 

“Where’d you learn to do stitches?” Elder Brother asked her and Sansa carefully threaded the needle through Sandor’s skin, ignoring his hiss of pain. 

 

“I followed this doctor around for a couple months for a story,” she explained, dabbing away some blood with a q-tip, “this wunderkind who was like 26 and had his own practice. His name was Loras, he was on the cutting edge of everything, really special.” 

 

“Can we focus?” Sandor growled, but Sansa kept talking. 

 

“He was really hands on, kept explaining to me about how working with his hands was how he got into medicine in the first place, yada yada. So he taught me some stuff in the downtime. I can place an IV, I can stitch something up, I can extract an ingrown toenail—“ 

 

“Well good, if I get one you’re the first person I’ll come to,” grumbled Sandor and Sansa glanced up at him. He hadn’t been this crabby when she started, just since she brought up Loras. Smiling slightly, she bent herself back over the work. 

 

“Okay, okay, fine. I’m focused. Stop wiggling like a baby and I’ll be done in a minute.” 

 

Sandor was working through the list of names and locations he’d gotten from Lorch, still gathering more and more pieces of the puzzle. He was crossing names off, but the more people he took down, the more the remaining members of Gregor’s gang got nervous. Sandor had had to fight through plenty of private security to get to the last man, and he hadn’t came out unscathed. But Sansa knew in the greater scheme of things, this was nothing but a scratch to him. 

 

“That looks good,” Elder Brother complimented her as Sansa tied off the last stitch and finished dapping it clean. 

 

“No pull-ups,” she told her patient strictly, “or you’ll pop them and I’m not redoing them.” 

 

“I’ll just call Doctor Loras,” he said tartly and Sansa rolled her eyes. He stalked from the room, barechested, leaving them to clean up the bloody swabs and tools. 

 

“Sounds like jealousy,” remarked Elder Brother cautiously and Sansa bit back a smile. 

 

“Oh, did I not mention that Loras was very, very gay and very, very much in love with his partner?” 

 

“Minx,” Elder Brother said appreciatively as Sansa pulled off her gloves and flung them into the wastebasket. 

 

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t hurt to remind him sometimes,” she said carefully. 

 

“You know,” Elder Brother gave her arm a squeeze, “if it was a different time, a different place, I think you two would….”

 

“But it’s not,” Sansa cut him off. She let her mind wander over those possibilities sometimes and it was too painful. “This is our time and place, our situation, our reality. I can’t change that. I can’t wish us into a different life because it’s never going to work. So I do what I can, with the here and the now, and hope like hell it’s going to be enough.” 

 

“After,” he confirmed and Sansa nodded as she scooped up any unused swabs for the next time this happened. 

 

“One way or another, things are going to change. I just hope that it’s for the better and I’m there when it does.” 

 

“Well, just know that I’m rooting for you,” he told her with a sad smile and she gave one back. 

 

“Yeah, me too. And for you and your girls.” 

 

“We won’t stay in this bunker forever,” he looked around at it, “or at least, I hope.” 

 

“Me too,” Sansa said glumly, but she really was beginning to think that this was her life forever now. 

 

When she entered the kitchen, Sandor was fixing himself a sandwich. He didn't look up when she sat down at the table, but neither did he immediately leave, so she at least knew she had a chance. She set her chin on her hand, observing him. It was a rare treat to have him with his shirt off, even if he was covered in blood. 

 

"What?" he finally grunted and turned to fix her with what was clearly meant to be a dirty look. 

 

"Just seeing if there's anything else I missed," she muttered, squinting and trying to see if he had another cut on his shoulder she should do. 

 

"Oh no," he pointed a butter knife at her in warning, "you're not coming anywhere near me with that thread again." 

 

"You're being dramatic," she eyed him levelly, "and a giant baby. You've had stitches before I'm sure." 

 

"Yeah, plenty. Most of them done by someone who knew what they were doing." 

 

"Hey." Sansa frowned at him. "I did my best." 

 

"Your best?" he snorted, taking a bite of the sandwich. "That doctor you learned from wasn't shit." 

 

"Wasn't he?" Sansa couldn't resist needling him, just a little bit. Too many days had past where he ignored her, focused on his warpath, for her not to want to just get a rise out of him. "I thought he had good hands." 

 

Sandor shot her a filthy look and threw the knife into the sink, grumbling something under his breath that she couldn't quite make out, but she suspected it involved a lot of cursing. He grabbed a bag of chips and tried to move past her but she stood in front of him and held her ground, staring evenly at him. 

 

"Stark," he looked ready to explode, but Sansa wasn't worried. 

 

"Of course, his boyfriend Renly thought he had good hands as well," she said quietly. It was like flipping a switch; every line of tension seemed to leave Sandor's body. His shoulders dropped, his jaw loosened, his eyes lost some of their fire. Transformed, in an instant. 

 

"Move," he ordered her, but far gentler this time.  

 

"No. I want to talk to you," she informed and for a second it seemed like he was going to push past her regardless. Then he sighed and went to sit at the table. 

 

"What then?" he demanded. 

 

"What happens after this, Sandor?" she asked, sitting across from him. Asking the question was a risk. It had plenty of ways to backfire against her. Sandor could storm off in a rage. It could shatter the fragile bonds she'd ever so carefully strung between them, mindful to not tie him down too quickly. But there was too many other variables to worry about; she could afford to take this chance. 

 

"After this?" he was stalling. 

 

"Yes, after. One day you'll run out of people to kill, sorry to inform you." 

 

"Just have to widen my range then." 

 

"Sandor." 

 

"What?" he gave her an exasperated look. 

 

"One day, this is going to stop." Sansa leaned over the table and tried to convey to him how absolutely serious she was. He just gazed at her steadily. "You're going to have to stop killing people eventually. What are you going to do then?" 

 

"Never thought about it." Sandor was trying to deflect, draw her attention to the fact that he was picking dried blood off himself, but Sansa wasn't having it. 

 

"Well, think about it. Elder Brother has a family he'll go back to." Sandor looked up sharply, but she kept talking. "I have a job. What are you going to do after this? What are we doing to do after this?" 

 

"I don't know," he said, far softer. "This has been all I've been good at, for so long." 

 

"That's not true." she reached across the table to take his hand. "You're good at lots of thing Sandor." 

 

"Like what?" he was very pointedly not looking at their hands. 

 

"Protecting me," she said softly and his lips twitched. 

 

"I don't know, I locked you in a bunker for a few months." 

 

"It's ongoing," she fought back a smile, "and I'm alive, so you still win."

 

"Alright, so I've got two things going for me," he admitted, still holding tight to her hand. 

 

"I just don't want you disappearing on me again," she said quietly. 

 

"I didn't disappear," he muttered, avoiding her eyes. 

 

"Sandor, you left and never told me where you were going," she said carefully. "I was left in the dark. I had no idea where you were, if you were safe, nothing. If you're going to go dark again, I just want to know beforehand. I worry.  
 

"You don't need to worry about me," he grumbled. 

 

"I do, clearly." Sansa gestured to his multiple bruises and cuts. He scowled. 

 

"Alright, when this is done, if I survive it, I promise that I'll tell you where I'm going."  

 

"You don't think you're going to survive it," she realized with growing horror. Self imposed exile with him for months had given her the ability to read every emotion that he hid away. He had given in too easily. He didn't think that he would live through the upcoming firefight. 

 

"You don't have anything to worry about, I'll make sure you're safe," he assured her steadily, but Sansa was already recoiling. 

 

"That's not enough, you know that," she accused him and he blinked. "You think you're going to die!" 

 

"I am aware of my own morality," he said carefully and Sansa got up to pace the room. 

 

"No, no, no, no, no, no...." she muttered. "No, absolutely not. No.” 

 

“Sansa,” he started to say and she rounded on him, furious. 

 

“No! How dare you?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“How dare you! I have done so much for you! I have given up my life for this,” she raged, “I have given up everything! And you’re going to go in like a suicide bomber and try to die, why? Because you don’t think you deserve to live? Because you think that’s the only way this can end? How dare you!” 

 

“Sansa, I don’t….” he trailed off, looking at her queerly. She fumed, beyond reasoning with now. 

 

“No. I would do anything for you, anything. I would die for you and you know it. You know how I feel about you, you have to. And this is what you’re going to do? I want there to be an after for you Sandor. For us. You deserve it.” 

 

“Little bird,” he said carefully, stepping towards her. Sansa, trembling, let him get close enough to rest a hand on her cheek. Then slowly, like he didn’t want her to jump away, he bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. Sansa held herself as still as she could. He backed up, expressionless, and then left the kitchen. Sansa waited until he was out of earshot before she burst into tears. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Sandor,” Elder Brother’s tone made Sansa nervous. She stuck her head out of her makeshift bedroom, watching as Sandor strode past. She followed him back into the main hub of the bunker, where the man was watching his multiple screens. 

 

“What is it?” Sansa asked, as Sandor squinted at the screens. Elder Brother’s family looked alright; they seemed to be in the middle of eating dinner. 

 

“They just went into the office,” Elder Brother said lowly, to Sandor, who swore under his breath and pushed past Sansa. 

 

“What’s going on?” Sansa asked again, but was ignored in favor of rapid typing. She followed Sandor, who was in the armory, grabbing down guns and grenades like they were going out of style. 

 

“You know what to do?” Elder Brother yelled and Sandor grunted in response. Bewildered, Sansa stood between the two men. 

 

“What’s going on?” she hollered and Sandor brushed past her. 

 

“It’s time,” he declared and Sansa’s stomach dropped. 

 

“It’s what?” 

 

“Go then,” Sandor urged Elder Brother, who was already shrugging on a coat and a hat. “I know where you’ll be.” 

 

“Will someone please tell me what’s happening?” Sansa pleaded and Sandor went to the kitchen, opening the cupboard where the shot glasses were. He busied himself pouring two shots, then turned and offered her one. Sansa looked at the dark whiskey quizzically, then looked up at Sandor. 

 

“It’s time,” he repeated, “my brother and the Lannister’s, all in one place. This is my only shot to get them Sansa. To take them down. Then I’m done. Then…. it’s an after.” 

 

She could hardly breathe. The look in his eye, nervous and assured all at once, deadly rage held at bay with the faintest tendrils of hope. The entire world outside the bunker had ceased to exist; all that mattered was the glass he offered in communion. She took it with hands that hardly dared touch his. 

 

“To the after?” she uttered, hoping beyond hope. 

 

“To the after,” Sandor confirmed and raised his glass. Sansa did the same and then they both drank. She set the glass down, trying not to make a face at the taste. Sandor watched her, a bit too closely, so she asked, 

 

“Now what do we do?” 

 

“I’m so sorry, little bird,” he said and the second Sansa saw the guilt flash across his face, she knew. She opened her mouth to curse him out, but the words were hard to find. As the world began to go dark, she tried to get them out anyways. 

 

“You bast—“

 

* * *

  

Sansa stared at Sandor, trying to figure out how hospital beds had a way of making everyone look so small. It didn’t matter that Sandor was a giant of a man; throw some sterile white sheets down and hook him up to a bunch of machines and suddenly he was as delicate as a hummingbird. 

 

He was as colorful as one as well. Bruises littered his face and body, including his scarred face. She hadn’t thought the skin there could even turn colors, but it had. He had one hand in a cast, the other in a sling. Broken nose, broken ribs, broken fingers, it seemed there was more parts broken than whole in him. 

 

But all that mattered was that he was alive. He could heal. The coma was medically induced, the best thing for him was what the doctors had said. Sansa was glad he was still and quiet. It made it easier for her to be in there with him. She had her own hurts to nurse and she wanted to be close to him. 

 

"Hey," Elder Brother - no, David, she had to remind herself of his real name - stuck his head around the corner to look at her in concern. 

 

"Hey," Sansa said quietly, eyes not leaving Sandor's face. 

 

"You okay? Need water or a snack? Something?" 

 

"I'm alright," Sansa smiled up at him, "but thank you for asking." 

 

"I'm going to go home with the kids," he informed her, "but I'll be back tomorrow. Physical therapy starts and all." he wiggled his fingers in the cast for his broken wrist. 

 

"Alright, sounds good," Sansa didn't rise to say goodbye, but he went anyways. They'd established a bit of a routine in the past couple days, comfortable with the ins and the outs of the hospital. Soon, if Sandor didn't wake up, Sansa would go back to her own room and go to sleep, try to rest through the nightmares, and begin again. 

 

She was just dozing off, sleepy from the pain medication, when she heard rustling from Sandor's bed. She opened her eyes to see him groggily trying to pull out his IV. She leaped from the chair to his side so she could smack his hands away before she was even aware that she was moving. 

 

"Hurts," he told her, his tone bewildered. 

 

"Yes, I get that," she carefully pushed him back into the blankets, "but don't pull it out. It's giving you medication you idiot." 

 

"Ahh...." he groaned and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were a little clearer. "Where am I?" 

 

"Hospital," Sansa informed him and he started to try to rise again, but she was there to push him back. "No, no, don't. You're half plaster right now, you can't walk. So don't try, okay? You're fine."

 

"What the hell happened?" he asked her, throat raspy. Sansa, once she was assured he wasn't going to try to leave again, went to pour him a glass of water. 

 

"You've been pardoned," she'd rehearsed this exact speech a thousand times since everything had calmed down, but her voice still shook. "Elder Brother - we can call him David now - he managed to get all our intel to a high ranking intelligence agent. Everyone's been arrested. It's over." 

 

"Who's dead?" he asked her, voice neutral and Sansa rattled off the names. 

 

"Joffrey, Illyn Payne, Tramp, both Kettleblacks, a dozen or so of their minions, Raff, Tobbot, and Tywin. But he killed himself when the feds came. Suicide." 

 

"And my brother?" Sandor was looking at his hands, beaten and battered. 

 

"Dead," Sansa said softly, "and he nearly took you with him." her eyes focused on the bandage wrapped around his head where the bullet had tore through his skull but somehow didn't damage him. 

 

"What happened? At the mansion," he clarified and she was quiet for a moment, drumming her fingers along the rail of the bed. She debated how much to tell him, but settled for the whole truth. 

 

"You went there to kill them all, I'm assuming. I don't know, because I was knocked out. Thanks for that, by the way. By the time I came around and figured out what was happening, David had already got the authorities everything. They agreed to back you up. I got there the same time they did - which was about when you decided to blow the whole place up with you included." 

 

"Seemed a good way to do it," he grumbled and Sansa's lips trembled, but she wasn't sure if it was from amusement or sheer emotion. 

 

"Well, there was a complete clusterfuck, but we figured it out in the end. We got you out. We got you here, got ourselves sorted out, and decided to wait until you woke up." 

 

"Sorted yourselves out?" he looked up at that. Sansa gave him a faint smile, rattling her own IV stand that she dragged everywhere with her now. Sandor jerked, eyes going wide. 

 

"I got shot by Joffrey," she explained, lifting her shirt every so slightly to show him the bandages that wrapped around the upper part of her torso. 

 

"You what?" Sandor's voice was deadly again. 

 

"You can knock me out, but that doesn't mean that I won't find a way to get myself in trouble," she declared and Sandor mumbled something under his breath she couldn't quite catch. 

 

"So it's done then," he said finally, leaning back. 

 

"They're all getting arrested," she nodded, "and someone leaked all the research to the papers." 

 

"Did they?" the sideways glance assured her that they both knew exactly who had done such a thing. 

 

"So now everyone knows exactly what they did. Every awful thing, they know. It's been chaos as everyone gets dragged through the muck, but hopefully something better will come of it," she mused. 

 

"I doubt it," Sandor said tiredly, "humans are shit. We'll keep on doing the same thing because we can." 

 

"Perhaps," Sansa agreed with him, but she wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. She patted his arm and rose. It really was time for bed. 

 

"Where are you going?" he asked her, and for the first time since she'd met him, he sounded more vulnerable and open. She took a long look at him, at the colorful tapestry that was his skin, and felt a smile tug at her cheeks. 

 

"My room's next door. They'll want to know you're up and I need to sleep. But I'm not far." 

 

"Sansa," he reached out for her and Sansa drifted to his bedside as though the string that seemed to connect their hearts had reeled her in. He took her hand in his and looked up at her, grey eyes soft. "I meant what I said. I don't know what comes next." 

 

"Well, you're a free man," she told him gently, "and I no longer have to worry about my father's killers coming for me from the shadows. It's a new start." 

 

"A new start," he echoed. "I don't.... I'm not sure what I do now." 

 

"It's okay," she bent forward and kissed his forehead, "because it'll be me and you, if that's what you want." 

 

"I do," he promised and then pulled her down for a true, proper kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> reviews are loved and cherished - this is going to firmly remain a oneshot so help me god - but i'd love to hear thoughts and feedback!!!


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